


To the Victor Go the Spoils

by inkand_paper (Fabuest)



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hot Rod just wants Magnus-senpai to notice him, Hurt/Comfort, Magnus please put down the datapad, Masochism, Multi, Reading, is that so much to ask really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fabuest/pseuds/inkand_paper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Follows immediately after Round One. Hot Rod is hurt and angry, but Kup knows how to help.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Round One

"Magnus?"  
  
Ultra Magnus looked up to where Hot Rod was peering around the pile of rubble that served as something akin to a privacy wall, separating his office cum personal quarters from the remainder of the partially collapsed underground structure that served as their current base.  
  
"Hot Rod," he said, trying not to let his surprise show. The young warrior very rarely sought him out unless ordered to report, and Ultra Magnus had not made any such order recently--in fact, he was currently as close to off duty as he got these orns, relaxing in the relative privacy of his "quarters" and reading an old court manuscript that no longer had any relevance to what was left of Cybertronian society. He hadn't been expecting anyone to report to him at all. "Is there something I can help you with?"  
  
Hot Rod hesitated. "You could say that. Uh, can I come in?"  
  
"Of course." Ultra Magnus straightened in his seat and set aside his datapad, gesturing to Hot Rod to come around the wall. "Has something happened?"  
  
"No sir," Hot Rod replied as he came closer. "I just, um." He stopped three mechanometers or so from where Magnus was sitting and tried to force a smile. His mass shifted nervously from pede to pede, and Magnus raised an optic ridge in question.  
  
"I wanna do something. For you," Hot Rod blurted out, and this time Magnus could not hide his surprised reaction.  
  
"For me?" he asked, hardly believing what he was hearing. He had been under the impression, since nearly Hot Rod's first orn as a member of his unit, that the young mech disliked him and resented his command.  
  
Hot Rod shuffled closer, optics locked uncertainly on Magnus' own as if he expected to be rebuffed at any moment, and his expression was shockingly earnest. "Yes sir."  
  
"What did you have in mi-- _oh_." Magnus cut off on a surprised gasp, optics widening as Hot Rod dropped to his knees in front of him and nudged his legs apart so he could fit himself between them. "Hot Rod, this isn't... You don't have to--"  
  
"Please," Hot Rod interrupted, looking up at him with bright, hopeful optics and resting one hand almost reverently on Magnus' midsection. "I want to."  
  
"Why--" Magnus started to ask, then cut off again when Hot Rod leaned forward to bump his nasal ridge gently against Magnus' codpiece, warm ventilations washing over the cool plating.  
  
"Doesn't matter why. Just let me. Please."  
  
Magnus sighed and cupped one massive hand around Hot Rod's helm, idly stroking it in a gesture he never would have imagined the younger mech would allow, but he leaned into the touch as if he craved it. "You want this?"  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
Hot Rod's field flared with honesty and raw desire, and Ultra Magnus shuddered. He could not deny that he found Hot Rod attractive, that his spark was spinning wildly in its casing just at the sight of the younger mech on his knees before him. If Hot Rod truly desired this, it would raise the warrior's morale to allow it to him, he reasoned, aware even as he had the thought that he was rationalising.  
  
He reached for his datapad, doing his best to ignore the way Hot Rod's field stuttered and his face fell. It was pure foolishness to agree to this, but he knew that he was going to; reading through it would be his shield, because he could not allow himself to grow attached. Not while the war still raged. Not after Optimus.  
  
"Very well," he said, just at the moment when Hot Rod began to draw back in defeat. He resumed the relaxed posture he had been sitting in when Hot Rod first interrupted him and sent the command to unlock the panels hiding his interface arrays.  
  
Hot Rod froze, staring at him with wary confusion turning quickly to incredulity. "You're going to _read_?" he asked, a hint of the reckless, brazen spirit he showed in battle leaking into his voice.  
  
"I am," Magnus said mildly. "Is that a problem for you?"  
  
Judging by Hot Rod's reaction, it was definitely a problem, but the way he went about resolving it was unexpected. He lunged forward to kiss, lick, nibble and stroke the panel covering Magnus' spike housing until it retracted, then paid the same ardent attention to Magnus' equipment until his spike was fully pressurised and leaking lubricant, as if he was determined to distract Magnus from his reading. Small, helpless noises of desire left his vocaliser as he eagerly, and more than a little stubbornly, worked Magnus over.  
  
He lasted almost two and a half breems before his concentration broke. His helm fell back, his optics fell offline, the datapad fell from his hands. He reached down to cup Hot Rod's helm again with a shuddering moan. Encouraged, Hot Rod redoubled his efforts, wrapping his lips around the tip of Magnus' spike and reversing his fans to create the suction of a vacuum while his glossa lashed over the sensitive urethral line.  
  
Magnus choked back a cry, all too aware that there was no real privacy here. Hot Rod's name was on his lips, but he could not allow himself to say it. He could not become attached. Hot Rod seemed to know anyway, and he moaned around Magnus' spike, small hands kneading and caressing thick white thighs.  
  
Magnus locked down his vocaliser to keep from shouting as he overloaded. Transfluid splashed into Hot Rod's mouth, spilled over his lips down his chin, and Hot Rod shuttered his optics in satisfaction. He let Magnus' spike slip from his lips and spat into his hand, then leaned forward again to carefully lick the spike clean.  
  
"You..." Magnus said, then trailed off, uncertain how to voice his surprise. In his (admittedly limited) experience, those who spat did not lick.  
  
Hot Rod met his optics when he was finished and raised his hand to his mouth, smirking. "You taste good. I just don't like a mouthful."  
  
Magnus nodded, then averted his gaze. The way Hot Rod was cleaning his hand, his lips and chin still stained silver with transfluid, was... well. It was nothing Magnus needed to watch right now.  
  
When Hot Rod finished, he leaned forward one more time and pressed a kiss to Magnus' spike, then to the inside of each thigh. "Thank you, sir," he murmured, and stood to leave before Magnus could so much as react.


	2. Round One Point Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows immediately after Round One. Hot Rod is hurt and angry, but Kup knows how to help.

Hot Rod swiped the back of his hand over his lips and chin, then licked his hand clean of the last of Ultra Magnus’ transfluid. That had not gone the way he’d planned it. He’d had fantasies of Ultra Magnus being overcome by desire, overloading into Hot Rod’s mouth before pinning him to the slab of sheet metal he called a desk and taking Hot Rod’s valve, hard and fast, making him scream so the whole base would know it was Ultra Magnus fragging him into a stupor.  
  
He should have known better, really. Ultra Magnus, overcome by desire? Of course it wouldn’t happen. But letting Hot Rod suck his spike and ignoring him in favour of a datapad until he was on the verge of overload… he hadn’t thought his commander could be that cold.  
  
He was angry, and humiliated, and unbearably turned on. Because humiliating or not, Ultra Magnus had let Hot Rod touch him the way he’d wanted to for a very, very long time, and he’d had his commander’s attention—his _full_ attention—even if only for the kliks before he’d overloaded.  
  
Being respectful had never caught Magnus’ attention, when he’d first joined the unit. Becoming increasingly insubordinate had made Magnus pay attention to him, but only long enough to think of a suitably boring punishment. Recklessness in battle and on patrol had earned him admonishment and, sometimes, recognition and thanks, but it was never enough.  
  
He wanted Ultra Magnus’ focus on _him_ , only him, nothing else, no distractions, and for a few glorious kliks he had had that. _That_ had made every millibreem of humiliation on his knees before his reading commander worth it, and along with the feel of Ultra Magnus in his mouth, under his hands, and the taste of his transfluid, it had gotten his fans spinning like nothing else.  
  
Hot Rod needed an overload, bad, and he didn’t care if he had help getting it or not. So when Kup ducked in from the tunnel that came up near the old city wall and nearly walked into him, Hot Rod grabbed on and kissed him, hard and fierce, until Kup yielded and wrapped his arms around him.  
  
Kup tasted familiar, like cy-gar smoke and bitter low grade energon and the odd, metallic tang of alloys nobody was built from anymore. Hot Rod melted against him, sighed into his mouth, and the desperate anger faded into something hurt and needy. Kup would take care of him; he always did.  
  
Eventually, Kup pulled back with a chuckle. “Been practicing again?”  
  
Hot Rod nodded mutely, because there was no point trying to deny it when Kup could taste the evidence on his glossa, but he couldn’t— _couldn’t_ —tell Kup that it hadn’t been practice this time: this time, it had been the real thing. In an orn or so, maybe, but right now it was still too raw.  
  
“And what glitch let you practice without returning the favour?” Kup asked, reading the situation perfectly. “I oughta take ‘em over my knee.”  
  
Hot Rod felt a harsh sob stick in his throat, and he shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Don’t talk, just frag me.”  
  
Kup smiled the way he always did when Hot Rod asked him a favour, like this was no different from letting him taste his cy-gar or digging up old, archived files on the war before he’d come online, when Optimus Prime and Megatron had still been on Cybertron.  
  
“I can do that for you, lad,” he said, the same way he always did, and then: “How do you want me?”  
  
“Whatever way you want as long as you’re in my valve,” Hot Rod said, because it didn’t matter, he just needed the overload he hadn’t been able to ask Magnus to give him.  
  
“All right. Come here.” Kup pulled Hot Rod away from the mouth of the tunnel, to an out of the way corner where they wouldn’t disturb anyone or be disturbed. “Here we go. Lie down.”  
  
Hot Rod did, and Kup lowered himself on top of him with a grunt, then settled between his thighs. He could feel it when Kup’s panel slid aside and his spike came to full pressure, hot and hard against his plating.  
  
“Let me in,” Kup said, “and hold onto me.”  
  
Kup’s arms slipped beneath Hot Rod’s and the old mech’s hands rested on his shoulders, almost as if cradling him, and Hot Rod mirrored the position so they were holding each other, warm and close, and then Kup slid into him. It was slow, sweet, and tender, the opposite of what Hot Rod had thought he wanted, but it was perfect.  
  
He had tried to hide the distress and upset in his field, but Kup must have read it anyway, because between gentle kisses on his mouth, his jaw, his throat, Kup kept whispering—crooning, almost—“You’re okay. I’ve got you, lad, you’re okay.”  
  
Overload rolled over him in a slow wave, and Hot Rod broke. He clung to Kup like a lifeline and sobbed, static crackling through his voice. Kup kept rocking into him, never altering his rhythm, kissing and crooning softly until Hot Rod overloaded a second time and finally fell quiet.  
  
Only then did Kup pull out, his spike retracting back into its housing and panel sliding back into place before he sat up and gathered Hot Rod into his arms.  
  
“Oh, lad,” he said quietly, sadly, stroking Hot Rod’s back plating and holding his helm close. “You went to him, didn’t you?”  
  
Hot Rod moved his lips, but no words came. Leaning into Kup’s solid, reassuring presence, he nodded miserably.  
  
“Didn’t go well?”  
  
“He let me,” Hot Rod whispered. His voice came out unsteady and hitching, and he winced. “But it wasn’t…” He didn’t know how to say it.  
  
Kup sighed, pressed a kiss to his helm. “And you’re going to go back to him anyway, aren’t you?”  
  
Hot Rod nodded. Yes, he would try again. He had to.


	3. Round Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A while after Round One Point Five. Um, Round Three will be better? Roddy will be happy eventually, I promise!

Hot Rod was known among Ultra Magnus’ unit for being an easy lay. There was no shame in it; most of them appreciated having someone around who was so willing to share. He was glad of it in the orns following his attempt with Ultra Magnus, because it meant there was no shortage of mechs (and a couple of femmes) whose berths he could retreat to to lose himself in pleasure when he wasn’t burning off charge by fighting or racing. Springer and Kup, especially, got a lot of attention.  
  
When he had first realised that maybe the only way to make Magnus notice him was an obvious come on and blatant invitation, he knew that the only way he could keep his commander’s attention was to make it good. Springer and Kup had been his first test subjects.   
  
Kup had demonstrated techniques, then let Hot Rod practice them on him until he felt confident with them. Springer was close to the same size as Ultra Magnus and therefore, Hot Rod had reasoned, their spikes would be similar. When he’d explained, Springer had been all too willing to let him experiment with adjusting the technique he’d learned from Kup to work as well on a larger spike.  
  
So he was comfortable with them, knew them well, and when he threw himself into getting _better_ because he hadn’t been good enough, they understood. Springer invited Arcee to join them a few times, and that was okay. Hot Rod liked Arcee, and if her spike was a little too different for using his mouth on her to really count as practice, at least it was fun.  
  
It was seventeen long orns before he finally felt ready to approach Ultra Magnus again, and in all that time Magnus never once mentioned what had happened in his office.  
  
Kup found him sitting in a chair in their newest base—they’d had to move twice since the last time he’d gone to Ultra Magnus, and this one had actual furniture—with his back straight, optics offline, cycling atmosphere through his vents in a slow, steady rhythm to calm himself. He didn’t have to ask what Hot Rod was doing, or why.  
  
When Hot Rod brought his optics back online and stood, Kup smiled at him gently and pulled him into a hug. “You’ll be fine, lad. And I’ll be right here when you’re finished, if you need me.”  
  
Hot Rod allowed himself to sink into Kup’s warm, familiar embrace for a full three kliks. Then he straightened and pulled away, and Kup let him go.  
  
“I’ll do better this time,” he promised. “I will.”  
  
Magnus’ office—a real office in this base, not a half walled off niche—was just down the hall. Hot Rod squared his shoulders, then carefully reconstructed his usual relaxed posture so Magnus wouldn’t see how tense he was, how nervous, and knocked on the door.  
  
“You may come in,” Ultra Magnus called, and Hot Rod stepped inside and closed the door again behind him.  
  
It was a few moments before Magnus looked up from his work, and Hot Rod waited patiently, forcing himself not to fidget. Something unreadable flashed across Magnus’ face when he did look up, there and gone again in less than a millibreem, and then he turned back to his datapad.  
  
“Hot Rod,” he said distractedly. “Is there something I can help you with?”  
  
Hot Rod refused to let the sting of hurt that he was worth so little of Magnus’ time into his field, or the tank-churning fear he felt at hearing the same words his commander had started with last time. This time would be different, he told himself. This time he would be better.  
  
“Yes sir,” he said, projecting confidence he didn’t feel. Magnus didn’t react other than to tilt his helm, indicating he was listening.  
  
Hot Rod hesitated, then bulled ahead; he couldn’t be awkward and uncertain this time, he had to be confident and self-assured. “I want to suck your spike.”  
  
 _That_ got Ultra Magnus’ attention. He looked up, optics bright and startled, and then his mouth firmed into a straight, hard line. Hot Rod’s spark sank.  
  
“I am on duty,” Magnus said.  
  
“No sir, you’re not,” Hot Rod persisted. “I checked the schedule. Your shift finished two breem ago. Sir.”  
  
Magnus paused, probably checking his chronometer. “So it did,” he allowed. “However, I am quite busy—“  
  
Hot Rod interrupted, a little bit horrified by how desperately his words came out. “It can wait. Just half a cycle, sir. It can wait that long, can’t it?”  
  
Ultra Magnus glanced down at his datapad, then sighed. “I suppose it can. Very well.”  
  
He wanted to scramble over to Magnus as quickly as he could, so he would be there before Magnus had a chance to change his mind. Instead, he forced himself to be calm and sauntered forward and around the desk, cool and easy. Ultra Magnus parted his legs for him, and Hot Rod held his optics as he dropped to his knees and licked over the panel that hid his spike.  
  
Magnus smiled and lowered his hand to stroke Hot Rod’s helm lightly, and he leaned into the touch, just barely holding back a pleased sigh. It would be better this time. As if to prove it, Magnus’ panel slid aside and his spike pressurised without any further encouragement from him.  
  
He leaned forward to nuzzle it, and Magnus’ hand followed, just resting on his helm as Hot Rod turned all his attention to the spike. It was as perfect as he remembered it, more perfect than anything he’d ever imagined because it was _real_ and it was _Magnus’_.  
  
“Thank you,” he whispered, quietly enough that he hoped Ultra Magnus wouldn’t hear. Hot Rod turned his helm so he could kiss the base of the spike, brushing the side lightly with his cheek. Then he shut down his optics and set to exploring the spike with his lips and glossa, mapping it out by feel and paying it the worship that was due to it because it was a part of Ultra Magnus’ body.  
  
The subtle textures of the thin plating under his lips were fascinating: the loosely spiralling seams that allowed it to extend as it pressurised and gave it that gently sloping taper; the tiny bumps where especially sensitive sensors were embedded, exchanging little zings of static charge with his lips as they passed over them; the shallow scoring that would provide just that extra bit of sensation inside a mech’s valve—those caught at his lips when he dragged them up the length of the spike, and he dipped his glossa into each one to taste.  
  
The sounds he pulled from Ultra Magnus, not very often but when he touched just the right spot or flicked his glossa just so, were like music. A quiet gasp, a low moan, a muffled sound that might have been a word. Magnus’ fans hitched a few times, making his vents rattle. Every sound Ultra Magnus made, Hot Rod echoed with a delighted moan.  
  
The weight of Magnus’ hand on his helm was warm and utterly welcome. It made no move to direct or guide him, only rested there. Long, thick fingers stroked him absently; occasionally they tightened, grasping, and Hot Rod savoured that reaction too.  
  
He could have kissed Ultra Magnus’ spike all orn without tiring of it, but he had promised he would only take half a cycle of Magnus’ time. He sighed, directing even the warm air of his exvent to softly caress Magnus’ spike. Then he dragged his glossa up the underside, from base to tip, and took Magnus into his mouth.  
  
The weight and heat of Magnus’ spike, the thickness of it, felt _right_ as Hot Rod lowered his helm, taking Magnus as deep as he could. He liked Kup’s spike, and Arcee’s and Springer’s, but none of them could compare to Ultra Magnus. Hot Rod bobbed his helm between Magnus’ thighs, massaging the underside with his glossa and leaving the spike wet and shiny with lubricant every time he pulled up.  
  
When he finally coaxed a real moan out of Magnus, Hot Rod hummed happily around the spike in his mouth and looked up to meet his commander’s optics. His spark plummeted. Ultra Magnus was not watching him, not even looking at him; the datapad was still powered up on his desk, and Magnus was reading—again.  
  
His tanks threatened to purge, and Hot Rod nearly choked on Magnus’ spike. He reversed his fans, sucking hard and willing Magnus to overload because he needed this to be over, now, before he broke down and cried in front of his commander.  
  
The hand on his helm tightened and Magnus' hips jerked up into his mouth, bumping the back of his throat. Then Magnus overloaded, transfluid pumping hot and faintly sweet into Hot Rod’s mouth. He swallowed it, grimacing slightly. Usually he liked to savour the taste and take his time cleaning up, but right now he just needed to leave.  
  
When Magnus was finished, Hot Rod pulled back from his spike. A thin string of oral lubricant stretched between them, and Hot Rod swiped his glossa over his lips to break it. He kissed the inside of Magnus’ left thigh—reverently, because even now he couldn’t bring himself to touch Ultra Magnus without reverence—then the right, and finally his spike.  
  
“Thank you, sir,” he said. He couldn’t keep his voice even.  
  
He stood up and retreated from Ultra Magnus’ office, so fast he nearly tripped on his own pedes, and he barely registered the way Magnus looked at him, or the concern in his voice when he asked, “Hot Rod? Is everything all right?”  
  
Hot Rod fled to the room where Kup had found him preparing himself, where Kup was still waiting, and he fell into his arms and wailed. It hadn’t been better this time. It had been worse.


	4. Round Two Point Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows right after Round Two, then skips ahead about 5 days by Earth's calendar. Kup gives really good cuddles, Ultra Magnus is acting weird, and Springer is a fantastic after-action lay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contents: hurt/comfort, implied violence, non-graphic depictions of injury and medical procedures, extreme masochism, tactile sex

Kup held him while he cried, rubbing his back in small, soothing circles and murmuring quiet words of comfort. Occasionally he hummed snatches of a melody Hot Rod didn’t recognise.

He heard Springer’s voice once, inquiring. “He’ll be fine,” Kup said, and Springer must have left after that, because Hot Rod didn’t hear him again and Kup went back to humming.

Once, he felt Kup tense. Hot Rod clung to him even tighter then, and buried his face against Kup’s shoulder, afraid that he would leave. After a few kliks, though, Kup relaxed again, and Hot Rod felt safe to slowly loosen his grip.

The static-laced sobs, which shook his entire frame and seemed to tear out of his spark itself, eventually slowed and then stopped altogether. Kup didn’t move. Hot Rod didn’t either. He felt numb, like he couldn’t stand even if he wanted to, and they sat quietly together for nearly a cycle.

“Will you do it again?” Kup finally asked.

“No,” Hot Rod lied.

Kup sighed, and Hot Rod knew he’d seen right through him. “You’re only hurting yourself, lad. Is he worth it?”

Hot Rod looked up at him reproachfully. “He’s Ultra Magnus,” he said. “He’s worth everything.”

Kup shook his head and held him closer. “I just hope you don’t have to give up that much.”

\---

Hot Rod sat quietly with the others, inspecting the last of his three guns before they left on their first raid in nearly four orns. The other two were standard issue blasters but this one, she was special. Small but deadly, like Arcee, she worked best in close range and she’d saved his life more than once. He called her Lita, after Elita-1.

Satisfied that Lita’s parts were all moving smoothly, she was sufficiently energised, and there were rounds in her chamber (not many, only three; they didn’t have snipers anymore because physical rounds were even harder to come by than enough energy to charge a blaster) Hot Rod looked up—and met Ultra Magnus’ optics.

He nearly dropped Lita, he was so surprised, and only managed not to by tucking her into subspace before she could fall. Ultra Magnus was looking right at him, his expression unreadable; he didn’t look away when he saw that Hot Rod had noticed him. Hot Rod stared, unable to move, unable to look away, and they watched each other silently for several long kliks.

Magnus finally broke optic contact, gesturing to Arcee to start the final mission briefing. It was probably his imagination, Hot Rod thought, or his optics malfunctioning, because it couldn’t have really happened—but he could have sworn that he saw Ultra Magnus’ lips quirk up in a tiny, barely-there smile before he turned away.

When Arcee finished, Hot Rod shot Springer a grin. They hadn’t found any energon in unguarded caches for long enough that their supplies were running low, which meant they had to take the risk of venturing into Decepticon territory to steal enough to keep them going. There would be fighting, no doubt about it, and he was looking forward to it.

“Hot Rod,” Magnus said as they filed out.

Hot Rod fixed his most casual, cocky grin to his face before turning back to look at the commander. “Sir?”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

Hot Rod’s optics glinted. “Me, sir? Never.”

\---

He didn’t do anything any stupider than usual, anyway. Hot Rod came back missing half of the left side of his spoiler, which hurt like the Pit but at least it hadn’t lost him any energon, and a ragged tear in the plating of his right arm that bled almost a whole ration’s worth before he could clamp the line and pinch the torn edges together long enough for autorepair to start sealing it.

He’d had to walk, holding his arm to his mouth so he could lap up every bead of energon that continued to spill as the line healed; he couldn’t afford to lose more while they were still on half rations, and a dripping line would leave a trail leading straight back to their base.

By the time he stumbled up the ramp to the third floor of the building they’d secured for now, he was exhausted and not in any mood to deal with Ultra Magnus’ disappointment.

“Any trackers?” was the first thing Magnus asked.

“None that I scanned,” Hot Rod answered.

“Good.” A pause, and then, “The others arrived over a groon ago.”

“Yeah, well,” Hot Rod snapped, “they could still transform and didn’t have to walk twenty-three kilosecs behind Decepticon lines and six through the wastes before they got to friendly territory. Do you know we’re eleven kilosecs in from the Autobot line, here? Sorry if I took a little longer than they did, sir.”

With any luck, Magnus would confine him to quarters for insubordination and come by later to tell him what his punishment duty would be. He liked knowing that the commander had been thinking about him at some point during his duty shift.

Magnus didn’t seem to be in the punishing mood, though. He just sighed and said, “I told you not to do anything stupid.”

Hot Rod didn’t really think jumping in front of a ‘con to stop him hitting Roadbuster while he was down was stupid, but he shrugged.

“You know me, sir, I just can’t help it. They say I’m a bit slow in the processor.”

“Whoever ‘they’ are,” Ultra Magnus said, “they’re wrong. Now go find Arcee and get yourself patched up.”

“Yes sir.”

Arcee was good with a soldering iron, scrap with a welder. She patched Hot Rod’s line and reconnected the wires that had snapped when his plating buckled and then tore, then bent his armour back into its approximate place and welded the gaps shut until it looked vaguely like his arm was supposed to. He sat through it patiently, gritting his teeth and routing his flinches to his left arm so the right one didn’t move.

“You can use a painkiller, you know,” Arcee finally said. “Nobody would think less of you.”

Hot Rod shook his head. “No. I’m fine, don’t stop.”

Arcee sighed. “I’m done with this. Now what do you want done with that?”

She pointed the torch at his spoiler. It wasn’t lit anymore, but Hot Rod jerked back anyway. “Careful with that thing! And just leave it, it’s fine.”

Arcee protested, but she wasn’t even really a medic, never mind a medical officer, so there wasn’t much she could do when he slipped past her and went to look for Springer. The triplechanger had probably already found someone to burn his charge off with, but it couldn’t hurt to try his luck.

His luck was good. Hot Rod coud feel the charge in Springer’s field from halfway down the hall to their shared quarters, and when he stepped in and draped himself over his friend, blue crackles of static snapped between them.

Springer’s optics came on—he must have been partially powered down—and when he saw Hot Rod, his smile was pure relief.

“Roddy. Glad you’re back.”

Hot Rod grinned and wiggled up until he was lying fully on Springer’s broad chassis. “How come you didn’t blow off your charge?”

“Waiting for you,” Springer said without a hint of shame. “Kup offered, but it didn’t feel right to frag around ‘til you got back.”

“Aww, you were worried about me,” Hot Rod cooed. “I always knew you cared.”

He crushed his lips down on Springer’s before the bigger mech could respond. Springer growled and wrapped his arms around Hot Rod, one at his waist and the other holding his helm firmly in place while he kissed Hot Rod into submission. That was what Hot Rod liked about Springer: he was never afraid to take what he wanted.

Hot Rod moaned into his mouth, and Springer sat up, settling Hot Rod in his lap and adjusting his position until he was arranged exactly the way he wanted him. Hot Rod let him without protest or resistance. Springer liked to be in control, and sometimes it was nice to be thoroughly dominated.

The kiss had grown languid and slow while Springer concentrated on moving them, but as soon as he was satisfied, he pulled Hot Rod in and took charge again. Hot Rod let him do that too, but he didn’t quite yield to Springer’s rough and demanding glossa and teeth. Springer got bored without at least a little challenge to the authority he had here, and Hot Rod was very, very good at challenging authority.

Fingers dragged over the shattered edge of his spoiler with far too much pressure, and Hot Rod arched, his cry muffled by Springer’s mouth. He bit in retaliation. Springer’s engine growled; he closed his fist around the spoiler, almost hard enough to dent, and wrenched to the side. Hot Rod screamed, white lights bursting across his optical feed, and he thought he might overload on the spot.

“Too fast, too fast,” he gasped. “You’re gonna make me—“

“That good, huh?” Springer asked, pulling Hot Rod’s helm back so he could bend and scrape his teeth over the cables of his neck. “Why don’t you show me?”

The hand on his spoiler jerked down and twisted, forcing him to follow the movement, and Hot Rod’s world exploded. The charge he’d been building released in a crackling rush, blowing at least a few capacitors and shorting out half his circuits as sparks of electric energy jumped between them. His mouth opened in a silent scream, and he jerked in Springer’s grip, and the hot, heady pain of his spoiler crushing against Springer’s palm was enough to trip his systems into a second overload.

When his vision cleared, he was sprawled across Springer’s chest and Springer was leaning back against the wall. The charge that had been so heavy in the bigger mech’s field was gone.

“Frag,” he said. “I’m sorry, you had to—“

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Springer interrupted. “You went off like unstable energon in a high pressure chamber. Wiped me right out.”

Hot Rod paused. He didn’t think he’d gone over that hard, but Springer wasn’t really the type to exaggerate. He didn’t really lie to spare his berthmate’s feelings, either—Hot Rod had heard “I’ve had better” from Springer more times than he cared to count when he’d first started learning from Kup.

“Huh. Okay. That’s good.”

“Your spoiler’s not usually that sensitive,” Springer commented.

“Not usually this damaged, either,” Hot Rod countered.

“I shouldn’t have—“

“What, you’re gonna get all protective over me now? Thought that was Kup’s thing.”

Springer sighed. “No. I’m not gonna ask if I hurt you ‘cause I know I did and I know you liked it, but I don’t want to damage you even more, either. You’ve got that covered all on your own.”

“It’s fine,” Hot Rod said. “No new damage reports. Nothing to worry about. Now shut up and let me recharge.”

Springer huffed, then chuckled, then wrapped his arms around Hot Rod’s waist and kissed his cheek. “Recharge good, Roddy.”

\---

When Hot Rod woke up, he pulled out of the still-recharging Springer’s arms and went straight to Ultra Magnus’ office. There was something he needed to do.


End file.
